"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART."
Beside the Wishing Well stood Anthony Trevithick, pale and moody. His eyes were on the ground, and an old childish habit of biting his nails when he was perplexed or in trouble had come back to him.
"I beg your pardon," said Lord Glengall at his elbow. "I have returned for some things Miss Graydon left behind her."
"These?" asked the young fellow, pointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets on the moss. But even in his anger he blushed for the unhappiness of the position.
Lord Glengall stooped and picked up the things, and stuffed them into one of the pockets of his rough coat. He turned as if to go away. Then he hesitated an instant and came back.
"There is no reason why we should be enemies," he said, advancing a step nearer.
"No?" replied Anthony Trevithick, lifting his moody eyes. "That depends."
"On what, sir?"
"On—a great many things," stammered the young man.